Free A Beautiful Place to Die by Malla Nunn

off,” he said calmly.
    “No. I’m okay. Honest.”
    “Now.” The faded shirt was unbuttoned to reveal a collection of dark bruises spread out across Donny’s stomach and chest.
    “What happened?”
    “Fell off my bicycle, landed on some rocks.”
    Emmanuel checked the tear-streaked face, saw the swelling at the corner of the weak mouth. “A rock hit you in the mouth as well?”
    “Ja, almost broke my teeth.”
    Emmanuel glanced at Shabalala, who shrugged his wide shoulders. If Donny had taken a beating, he knew nothing about it.
    “You were telling me about your business.”
    “Donny’s All Goods. That was my shop.”
    “What happened?”
    Donny pulled at an earlobe. “Border gate police told Captain Pretorius about some photos I brought in from Mozambique. He didn’t like them and had me sent off to prison.”
    “What kind of photos?”
    “Art pictures.”
    “Why didn’t the captain like them?”
    “Because he was married to that old piece of biltong and me here with two women of my own.”
    “He was jealous?”
    “He didn’t like anyone having more than him. Always top of the tree. Always putting his nose into everyone else’s business.”
    “You didn’t like him?”
    “He didn’t like me.” Donny was in full steam now. “He stole my photos and my camera, then put me in jail. Now look at me. Skint as a kaffir. He should have been the one in jail. Not me.”
    “Where were you last night, Donny?”
    Donny blinked, caught off guard. His tongue worked the corner of his bruised mouth.
    “We was here all night with Donny,” the older girl stated. “We was with him all the time.”
    Emmanuel looked from one hard-faced girl to the other. Their combined age couldn’t have been more than thirty. They stared back, used to violent confrontation and worse. He turned to Donny.
    “Where were you?”
    The girl had given him time to collect himself. “I was here all day and all night with my wife and her sister. As God is my witness.”
    “Why did you run?” Emmanuel asked quietly.
    “I was scared.” The tears were back, turning Donny’s face into a mud puddle. “I knew they’d try to pin it on me. I ran because I thought you’d do whatever they asked you to.”
    “We was here with him all the time,” the child wife insisted. “You have to leave him alone now. We’s his witness.”
    “You sure you were here, Donny?”
    “One hundred percent. Here is where I was, Detective.”
    Emmanuel took in the sordid ruin that was Donny Rooke’s life. The man was a pervert and a liar who’d scraped together a flimsy alibi, but he wasn’t going anywhere.
    “Don’t leave town,” he said. “I’d hate to chase you again.”
    The air outside Donny’s squalid home smelled of rain and wild grass.
    “Detective.” Donny scuttled after them with Emmanuel’s filthy hat as an offering. “I’d like my camera back when you find it. It was expensive and I’d like it back. Thanks, Detective.”
    Emmanuel threw his hat into the car and turned to face the scrawny redheaded man. “Just so you know, Donny. Those are girls, not women.”
    He slid into the sedan and gunned the engine, anxious to leave the shack behind. The car wheels bumped over the potholed road and threw up a thin dust serpent in their wake.
    “Where are the parents?” he asked Shabalala.
    “The mother is dead. The father, du Toit, likes drink more than he likes his daughters. He gave the big one as wife, the small one as little wife.”
    They rode the rest of the way in silence.

    The mechanical hum of sewing machines filled Poppies General Store as Emmanuel and Shabalala walked in for the second time. Zweigman was behind the counter, serving an elderly black woman. She pocketed her change and left with a parcel of material tucked under her arm. Zweigman followed and shut the doors behind her. He flipped the sign to “Closed,” then turned to face his visitors.
    “There’s a sitting room through this way,” Zweigman said, and